


a drumming noise inside my head

by ampeletta



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical The Spiral Content (The Magnus Archives), Cunnilingus, F/F, Knifeplay, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Threats of Violence, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27085555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampeletta/pseuds/ampeletta
Summary: Melanie knows, intimately, why it's called blood lust// Melanie is tormented by the Slaughter, and she seeks out some semblance of solace in Helen's corridors.
Relationships: Helen | The Distortion/Melanie King
Comments: 11
Kudos: 19





	a drumming noise inside my head

Melanie hears the drums, an ever-building cacophony in her head accompanied by whispering voices. They mock her and taunt her, goading her to once again give in to the anger and lose herself in the fray. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, trying to remember the techniques taught to her by countless teachers and counsellors, but she forgets them against the onslaught of images flickering behind her eyelids and the whispers grow louder, more insistent. She remembers facing off against the horde of Flesh creatures that had attacked the archives. She sees herself, graceful and dangerous, as she fell into the rhythm of the drums, each thrust and parry accompanied by a swell in the music. She can feel the phantom weight of a knife in her hand, the way it made her feel complete. How her heart beat in time to the song of the Slaughter, and how in the midst of the chaos and the screaming and the viscera, Melanie felt at peace. A part of her, growing ever louder and more demanding, has been chasing that high ever since. There’s clamouring whispers in between the war drums, telling her to use the knife that has been strapped to her leg ever since that attack, or the one in the kitchen, or the one that Basira keeps hidden away in her desk. The whispers are endless, urging her to free herself from the cold, lifeless halls of the Institute and give herself over fully in a rhapsody of violence. When the call of the Slaughter is as demanding as this, there’s only one thing that can make it silent, that can momentarily calm the whirlwind of rage that is burned deep into her bones.

Melanie stands before the door, her hand poised to knock on the eye-searingly yellow wood as she hesitates for just a moment. When she first ventured down here, it had taken her several anxious minutes before she had been able to even think about knocking. Now, it only takes her a few seconds to cross that chasm, the sound of the knock echoing around the tunnel. Helen opens the door and Melanie has to avert her eyes from the discordance of colour and shapes that greets her, geometrically impossible and ever-changing. It only takes a few seconds for Helen’s shape to stabilise into a gorgeously sharp figure who smirks at Melanie as she leans against the wooden frame of the door.

“Back so soon are we?”

The words are almost as grating as the sound of her voice, and Melanie has to breathe deep to try and claw back the rise of instinctual fear that rises up from hearing Helen, the age-old urge to flee from something wrong. She takes a step forward instead. Helen’s smirk grows wider at this, wider than should be possible on her face. She beckons Melanie forward, deeper into the corridors that twist and turn such that Melanie could never find her way out again if Helen changed her mind. Melanie knows that Helen is a fickle creature, that this is objectively not rational or well-thought out and a million other concerns fly through her head, but none of them can overcome the the throbbing bullet wound in her leg, or the sound of war drums in her head, or the comforting weight of the knife strapped to her thigh, the way she knows it will feel even better in her hand as it grazes across Helen’s skin. She follows Helen in, and the door slams shut behind her.

Helen moves further down the corridor, humming a distorted tune, a mockery of the melody that had been plaguing Melanie for days now. It urges her forward, forward and she reaches Helen quickly, coming up behind her to crowd her against the wall. Helen towers over her but she allows Melanie to box her in, both hands pushed up firmly on the undulating wallpaper. Melanie grips both her wrists, widening her stance so that all of her is pushing Helen further against the wall, her face turned to side. She trails her lips against the nape of Helen’s neck, kissing the soft skin that peeks out of her silk blouse. Melanie still hears the faint tune of drums as she rolls her hips against Helen’s thigh, and her kisses take on a sharper edge, biting at Helen’s dark skins until it starts to bruise. The drums call for her to bite down, to tear and gnaw and for one moment, she thinks about the blood that would spill out of Helen if she were to bite down hard. Almost as if she could read her thoughts, as though she was of the Eye instead of the Spiral, Helen escapes Melanie’s grip and turns around to face her.

“Well, aren’t you eager?” she whispers, smirking all the while.

One sharp-tipped hand rests under Melanie’s chin, forcing her to look up, up, up at Helen’s flickering face. The other trails down Melanie’s body until it reaches the holster where Melanie keeps her knife. She withdraws it and offers it to Melanie, handle first. The blade is biting into her hand, golden ichor starting to trickle out. Helen’s blood is a constant reminder of her inhumanity, as though her constantly shifting form or the laughter that hurt like a rusted nail wasn’t enough. Helen’s blood has never ran red in all the times they’d done this before, never quite been the crimson ambrosia that the Slaughter lusted after. Melanie takes the knife and as she does so, Helen moves her hand from the blade to cover Melanie’s grip. Their fingers intertwine around the handle, the warmth of Helen’s blood coating Melanie’s hand, dripping down onto the silver of the blade itself. Helen directs the knife to rest against her clavicle, which just peeks out from under the unbuttoned collar of her blouse.

“How would you like me this time? I rather enjoyed how we played last time but of course, we wouldn’t want it to grow stale, that wouldn’t do at all-”

She’s cut off as Melanie moves her hand upwards, quickly as though she was going in for a strike. The blade rests against Helen’s lips, and Melanie’s other hand cups her face. It’s not a gentle gesture. Melanie can’t cope with gentleness; can’t cope with the idea of soft words, softer hands, the doe-eyed gaze of a woman that Melanie never had the opportunity to fall in love with, who only exists in Melanie’s memory now. She grips Helen’s face hard and pulls her down into a harsh kiss, the kind of kiss that almost satisfies these urges inside of her. It’s not enough, she thinks as she pulls away gasping. Melanie knows what it would take to silence the drums forever, and this melody of lust and blood is only a pale imitation.

Melanie trails the knife downwards, the edge of the blade ghosting over the hollow of Helen’s throat, not quite cutting the skin. Helen looks her in the eyes and arches her head back, pushing the soft skin forward until a thin line of red appears, the first time that Helen’s blood has ever seemed human. Melanie watches it intently, pushing the knife in further and further, not deep enough to cause any real damage- not that it would harm Helen anyway, that’s the whole purpose of this twisted game, but with enough force that the red starts to flow more freely. She moves the knife away and leans forward to kiss away the blood, her lips stained a deep, dark red. She can feel herself growing hotter and she bites back a moan, moving her lips down to suck at Helen’s neck as she quickly unbuttons Helen’s blouse, ignoring the way the buttons feel wrong under her fingers. Melanie makes her way down Helen’s chest, leaving bloody kisses in her wake. She cups one breast and starts mouthing at her nipple, making Helen gasp, the sound almost too human for the creature she had become.

Helen’s pulse is beating underneath her, an irregular rhythm that beats hummingbird fast, too fast to belong to any human creature. She doesn’t try to count the beats, Melanie knows all too well that that’s a surefire way to fall further under Helen’s spell, to lose herself in delusions and corridors. Melanie drops to her knees instead, and Helen’s hands come to rest on her head. She can feel the sharp points of her fingertips digging into her, and she ignores the urge to count how many there are. Instead, she focuses on the beautiful, inhuman thing before her. She could hear Helen’s heavy breathing, soft gasps that she didn’t make any attempt to muffle as Melanie runs her hands over Helen’s skirt, unzipping it like a present. Helen is laid bare under her touch, and Melanie nearly moans at the sight of her dark curls, unencumbered by fabric and already wet in anticipation.

Melanie picks the knife back up and trails it up Helen’s leg, following its journey with her tongue. The blade isn’t cutting, not yet, but the cold touch of it still makes Helen’s leg tremble. The involuntary reaction lights something up inside Melanie, and she rubs her thighs together as she mouths at the softness of Helen’s inner thigh, watching it bloom dark under her teeth. Helen’s fingers dig in deeper, urging Melanie on with soft words and sharp touches. Melanie continues to caress Helen’s skin with the knife. Deeper this time, carving patterns into Helen’s skin, and even though the blood now spilling out of her isn’t the red that the Slaughter has taught Melanie to crave, the sight of it still ignites something inside her. It drips like molten silver, trickling and drying in impossible patterns. For a moment, Melanie wants to sit back and watch it, lose herself in the minute variations of lines and width, distract herself from the echoing drums with a new kind of madness. Helen’s hands pause in their ministrations and grab her by the jaw instead, forcing her to look away from the mercury rivulets. Helen’s face is flushed and her eyes are dark with lust, deep pools that Melanie wants to sink into. She strokes Melanie’s cheeks with her nails, sharp traces that make Melanie want to croon and beg for more.

“Not that I wouldn’t claim you for my own,” she says, her voice husky and low, “but I would really rather that we finished this little venture first, wouldn’t you agree?”

Melanie nods, dropping away from Helen’s gaze to kiss her way down her stomach. There’s no teasing touches now, and Helen’s fingers move back to Melanie’s hair, gripping it tight as Melanie digs her fingers into the back of Helen’s legs, sharp like the bites she leaves scattershot on Helen’s hips. The whispers that still linger in the back of Melanie’s mind clamour for more, for Melanie to take and rend, but she’s able to ignore them here, to go at her own pace.

Helen’s pulling her hair taut, just on the edge of too much, but Melanie can’t find it in herself to care as she finally tongues Helen’s clit. Helen moans load, hips thrusting as Melanie puts her skilled mouth to work-- she’s always been good at this, loves to make her partner lose themselves against her but everything is heightened when it’s her and Helen, her taste and musk going straight to Melanie’s already dizzy head. Helen is loud, praises rolling off her lips and Melanie continues her worship to the rhythm of Helen’s words, drowning out the drums and the whispers with her presence. Melanie wants to fall in deep, to exist only in this moment where pleasure reigns supreme. She sticks a hand down her own pants, moaning against Helen as she finally, finally touches her own throbbing clit, moving in time with her mouth on Helen. Helen gasped as she came undone, legs shaking as Melanie pulled herself away, lips wet and shining.

Helen knelt, eye to eye with Melanie, and she grabbed her by the jaw once more, kissing her hungrily, feverishly. Melanie is still wearing all the clothes she came in with, hot and sweaty against her flushed skin, but she can’t bring herself to care as she kisses Helen back, equally as needy and fierce. Melanie pulls her hand out of her trousers and wraps both of them around Helen’s shoulders, pulling her close. Helen’s hands go to her hips and she pulls her down onto her lap, letting Melanie grind against her thigh, desperately seeking friction and contact. Still kissing her, she replaces Melanie’s fingers with her own, thumbing against the hard nub of her clit. Melanie breaks their kiss and mewls at the touch, a high-pitched noise that echoes continuously in the endless corridors. One of Helen’s fingers enters her then, impossibly long as it crooks against exactly the right spot and Melanie writhes. Helen kisses her hair, her ear, the nape of her neck, all in tandem with the movements of her fingers against Melanie’s slick cunt. She tucks her face against Helen’s neck and presses a biting kiss to her skin, deepening the kiss as her orgasm washes over her. For a singular moment, there’s only silence between the two of them, no whispering or drums or lingering madness; only two lovers locked in an embrace.

“Well, wasn’t that just _delightful_ ” Helen crows, breaking the soft silence.

Her skin is decorated with dried blood, stained into fractal patterns that make Melanie’s eyes ache to look at. She looks down at her own hands instead, at the blood that coats them, a rainbow of colours that Helen had given freely, but all her eyes focus on in is the hints of red burying themselves into the dry cracks of her skin, embedded under her fingernails. An unbidden thought came to her, of the play her class had gone to the theatre to see in preparation for their A-Levels. She thinks of Lady Macbeth crying “Out damned spot”, rubbing her hands raw under the lonely spotlight. Melanie remembered being enthralled, unable to look away from the actor’s despair as she held an audience of sixth formers captive with her plaintive cries-- but now she can’t feel further away from pathos she had experienced then. She wants her hands to be stained bloody with her spoils, for it to sink into her own skin and become part of her, running through her own veins. She wants to drink it in, desperate gulps overflowing down her cheeks and neck as the sweet siren’s song of the Slaughter echoes all around her. Melanie knows, intimately, why it is called blood lust.

“-and really darling, you should have told me how much you preferred that spot of red, we must be open and communicative about these sorts of things.”

Melanie comes back to herself, aware that Helen has been talking all the while. She feels off-balance, like she might fade away again and yet also horribly present. Helen’s voice bounces off the walls and echoes around her, the words slipping away into nonsensical syllables. She digs her fingernails into the softness of her wrist, willing herself to wake up, to listen to what Helen is saying.

“Of course, I know all about the need to keep the spark alive, _do_ remind me to tell you about Helen’s last little fling before she took a wrong turn into Michael’s corridors.”

“What are you talking about?” Melanie interrupts, cutting Helen off.

“I do wish you would listen Melanie dear, but I was saying that I hadn’t realised how much the red would appeal to you, though of course I should have been able to make an educated guess- the Slaughter is so dreadfully predictable after all.”

“Helen, just get to the point!”

Helen walks behind Melanie, kneeling down to rest her chin on her shoulder. Melanie tried to hold back a shudder as Helen began running her fingers through her hair, a lover’s gesture too soft for the pair of them, for what they had just done.

“Here’s what I’m envisioning darling,” Helen whispered into her ear, “I’ll pick out some lovely little specimen and take them on a journey through my corridors, give them the deluxe tour. I’ll let them find the door, and can’t you just imagine how overjoyed they’ll be when they see it? That one last surge of hope as you open the door, and they’ll think that you’re their saviour once they see you.”

The sight came unbidden into Melanie’s head: coming up once again to the eye-searingly yellow door. Opening it to some poor, lost soul on their knees, seeing their eyes light up as they saw the outside world where the walls didn’t melt and the carpets stay firm and solid under your feet. Stepping forward and closing the door behind her, seeing the fear in their eyes as they saw the glinting silver of the knife in her hands.

“Imagine playing our little game, but with someone who bleeds and screams.” Helen whispered softly, her words poisonously sweet as her breath curled hot over Melanie’s ear. “Just imagine how much lovelier you’ll feel when their body bleeds out. There’s no afterglow like it, trust me.”

The worst thing, of course, was that Melanie could imagine it. Vividly, and how she longed for it. Longed to be able to see the light drain from the body beneath her, for the blood to coat her. Helen would kiss her, deep and as loving as she could be, two monsters united.

Melanie tore herself away from Helen’s caress, stumbling back towards the yellow door, back to the silent archives and the calculating stares of Basira, the missing shades of Jon and Tim and Daisy and Martin, the ever-present feeling of being watched and alone.

“Just think about it dear,” Helen called out as Melanie crossed the threshold. “After all, you’ll be back soon enough”.

The door slammed shut and Melanie sunk to her knees outside it. She wished she could deny Helen’s parting words, but the drums always, always came back, too loud and too demanding to resist.

**Author's Note:**

> please let me know if you need anything else tagged. thanks to all the eye horror gang for encouraging this.
> 
> I'm also on tumblr: @ampeletta


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